Don’t worry your grumpy little head.
I stared at the text a second too long, then tossed my phone on the counter before I broke it. Again.
Kakashi freaking Hayashi.
Every conversation since preseason had revolved around him.
The soccer-god golden player from Kyoto. A player who practically bled clean image and legacy appeal. He was the league’s wet dream—World Cup winner, charity ambassador, fluent in five languages, photogenic in every damn angle. And he was this close to signing with West Michigan.
But the deal was fragile. He wanted a squeaky-clean environment. No locker room drama. No PR disasters.
And I’d been the PR disaster last season.
The suspensions, the fines, the post-match interviews where I said shit like “We played like trash because we are trash.”
So yeah. The front office had reason to worry. And Cameron, in all his suit-wearing brilliance, decided the best way to salvage my image was to give me a romantic storyline.
Enter Daphne Sommers.
Smart. Grounded. Ethical. Everything I wasn’t.
And apparently, everything Hayashi wanted to see in a team’s culture.
Because God forbid one of us had a slightly messed-up past or a temper on the pitch. Couldn’t have any edge when you were selling jerseys and family-friendly halftime shows.
I ran a hand down my face.
This wasn’t just a PR stunt anymore.
This was my career on the line.
Hayashi signed with us, the team got a championship-caliber player; the league got their poster boy, and I—if I kept smiling next to Daphne like a golden retriever in love—got to keep my job.
And if I screwed it up?
If I let my real feelings slip out—my real attraction, the way she made my chest feel like it wasn’t all stone and scar tissue?
I’d lose everything.
Because the second this looked real, the second I made it personal… was the second it stopped being something I could walk away from.
I stared at the message app like it might type itself.
This shouldn’t be hard. It was just a text. A question. A fake girlfriend logistics thing.
Still, I rewrote it twice before finally sending:
Team dinner tomorrow night. You in?
Her reply was immediate.
That’s your invite?
I exhaled through my nose. Of course it wasn’t enough for her. She wanted full sentences. Punctuation. A parade, probably.
Do you want it with flowers and glitter?
I want it with actual manners. Try again.
